Padmïni

I don’t remember most of my life the way I thought I would. Some of that is easy to explain. There were early years when I was taking pills, drinking a lot, and losing whole nights to blackouts. But it’s not just that. Even the best parts of my life, the highlights, the moments I thought I was really living, don’t stay with me the way I expect them to. That’s the cruel thing about memory. When a year is happening, it just passes normally. It feels long and open and unfinished. I try to be there for it. I try to stop, breathe, look around, and really live it while it’s still happening. And I did. I was there in multiple countries. I really lived in them. I didn’t just rush from one place to another, take pictures, and move on. I tried to actually live those moments. But later, the brain compresses everything. Whole months turn into a few glowing fragments: a skyline, a street, a hotel room, a train ride, a night walk, a feeling. I traveled so much, saw so much, and lived so much, but when I look back, what I mostly remember is the feeling. The rest gets flattened into a few scenes and emotions. It all becomes vague. I don't like it. That When I go back and look at the pictures or videos, they almost seem new to me. Not completely unfamiliar, but distant. Like I know I was there, I know I lived it, but I still can’t fully reach that version of it anymore. It all just comes back in pieces. Maybe that’s what hurts most about memory. Not just that it fades, but that even the parts of life I really lived, the parts I was fully there for, come back to me feeling far away.